


Stains on Your Skin

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Claiming, Comeplay, Creeper Derek, Extremely Dubious Consent, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Objectification, POV Derek, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Scent Marking, Somnophilia, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14321904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: Stiles’s window is open. That’s not an excuse.





	Stains on Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Derek's super creepy and voyeuristic and possessive in this, and his behavior isn't properly handled by societal standards, so just be aware that this sets a bad precedent and don't tolerate or reward this shit in real life. Detailed warnings in the end notes.

Stiles’s window is open. That’s not an excuse, it’s just… It just is. There’s no sound coming from inside, none of Stiles’s rapid typing or the regular fluttering of paper as he turns book pages, no music or movie sounds coming from his laptop. Derek finds himself silently dropping into a crouch on Stiles’s carpet a moment later, positioned with his feet awkwardly spread around loose papers and teenage detritus littering the floor.

Stiles is stretched out on his bed, asleep, still mostly dressed from school. He’s leaning back on a stack of pillows, half-sitting up, and his t-shirt is rucked up, revealing his pale belly and the dark, sparse trail of hair leading down from his navel. His boxers are low on his hips and his jeans are unbuttoned, spread open thoughtlessly. One hand hangs off the bed, along with one foot, and his other leg is curled, bent underneath him. His right hand still rests on the keys of his laptop, which is propped beside him on his wadded up hoodie, and there’s a research paper filling much of the screen.

Derek stalks closer to the bed, light on his feet, listening to the faint whistle of Stiles’s even breaths. As he takes in the easy, careless sprawl of Stiles’s body, his gaze keeps catching on the stretch of skin revealed at his waist. He’s never seen this skin before. He’s never seen Stiles without his shirt. He’s never seen how pale he is, how freckled or scarred he might be beneath his clothes.

There is a scar, he sees. An old one, small and fully healed, right above the cut of his hip, and it’s familiar to Derek. He’s seen the same scar on countless others. A common medical procedure, he guesses. He wants to touch it, feel the difference in the skin. If there is a difference.

He wants to feel the hairs darkening his pelvis, too. Is it coarse, stiff, or is it soft like the hair of his head? Derek rubs absently beneath his own shirt to compare, but he’s a werewolf and Stiles is a human boy. Derek wants to know if they’re the same.

He’s leaning over the bed now, hesitant to breathe in case it wakes Stiles up. His hands extend in front of him before he really comprehends what they’re doing, reaching to touch, reaching to pull Stiles’s shirt a little higher. The loose fabric shifts easily and Derek swallows the sudden moisture in his mouth as Stiles’s bellybutton is revealed. The curve of his bottom ribs. Just a little higher—

Stiles shifts suddenly; his heartbeat spikes and he lets out a slurred, incomprehensible, “Mmph?” He doesn’t open his eyes. He just reaches sleepily for the hem of his shirt and rubs his palm over his belly, soothing away the tickle of air and fabric brushing over him.

The movement leaves his fingers resting at the open vee of his jeans, loosely curled. Derek is salivating at the sight. There’s no denying it now.

“Fuck,” he breathes, with urgency and feeling, as he squeezes his cock through his pants. He needs more than just to adjust himself. He needs—He _wants_ … He wants a lot of things.

Stiles has turned his head sharply to the side in a way that’s surely going to leave him with a sore neck when he wakes up, but the cut of his jaw is achingly beautiful. Derek follows the long tendons in his neck with hungry eyes, dragging his gaze from Stiles’s ear to the neckline of his shirt, to the barely-visible ridge where he knows Stiles’s collarbones are.

Stiles smells faintly like sweat and a lot like books and ink, and it’s not _enough_. Derek wants— _needs_ —to touch him. He needs Stiles to smell like _him_.

Derek digs into his jeans and strokes himself roughly, squeezing hard on the upstroke. There’s not enough time; he can’t take long. He won’t anyway. He grimaces and shuts his eyes, just for a moment. Stiles’s heartbeat is slow and even. His breaths are regular. Derek’s own arousal, his own desperation is overpowering the smell of Stiles’s sweat, but the sharpness of paper and ink remains heavy in his nostrils. He’s going to be conditioned to get hard in libraries, at this rate.

He opens his eyes again. There’s a bluish smudge of darkness on the bony part of Stiles’s wrist. It’s from Derek’s own hand, bruising him as he grabbed Stiles, yanked him through the forest, tightening his fingers a little too hard as they ran together. There’s another bruise, higher on Stiles’s forearm, that Derek didn’t cause, and it brings him a surge of jealousy and fear. He doesn’t know what the bruise is from. He doesn’t know if it was something innocent, something like Stiles’s own clumsiness and excited flailing, or something dangerous. He doesn’t know if it’s another way Derek’s failed to protect him.

He barely keeps from letting out the hiss of _Mine_ that’s caught behind his teeth. _Mine to mark, mine to keep safe_.

He can’t—He _shouldn’t_ … He wants to come on Stiles’s exposed skin, stain him with his scent, with his claim.

Derek leans over the bed and extends his left hand over Stiles’s body, rests it on mattress in the narrow strip of space between Stiles’s ribs and his computer. He stretches out almost fully on top of Stiles, careful not to touch him anywhere. Stiles turns toward the dip in the bed automatically, shifting partially onto his side, and Derek seizes the opportunity to position his knee beside Stiles’s leg.

If Stiles wakes up now, his instinct will be to fight. When Derek’s surprised him before, appearing in the corner or at his window, he’s been startled, and his initial spike of fear settles into lighthearted annoyance and calm. Safety. But this, with Derek so close, with Derek _invading his space_ , there’s no doubt in Derek’s mind that Stiles will fight and scream.

He’s breathing hard, panting through his open mouth as he tries to rein in all of the noises and words that threaten to spill from his lips.

He can smell Stiles better now, with his face a bare few inches from Stiles’s shoulder. He leans up toward the column of Stiles’s neck, holds his mouth open and imagines the taste of Stiles’s skin. He wants to lick, he wants to _bite_.

He’s going to come, he’s so close now, and he wants Stiles to open his eyes, he wants Stiles _awake_ , so he can taste that pale throat, so he can feel the warm flush that would color him pink. He wants Stiles to know it’s Derek painting his skin with come.

Derek manages to remain quiet when it happens, but just barely. He won’t let himself breathe for several long moments, too scared of the harsh pants and unintelligible groans that might escape. There’s a sharp uptick in Stiles’s heartbeat when Derek’s come splatters his stomach, but he doesn’t wake. His scent takes on faint note of arousal, almost entirely hidden beneath Derek’s own scent, and Stiles shifts his left hand from where it rests against the waistband of his boxers, drifting down to cup himself lazily through his pants. He lets out a sigh and rolls fully onto his back again, and Derek quickly retreats, rising fluidly off the bed and crossing the room to get himself under control.

Stiles doesn’t do anything else. His cock isn’t even hard under his jeans. His hand is curled around himself comfortably, like he _could_ be hard, but it wasn’t a wet dream that brought out this subtle, unhurried arousal, it was _Derek’s scent_. It was the feeling of Derek coming all over his belly.

It’s almost too much for Derek to bear, the knowledge that he brought Stiles to this point and Stiles has no idea. It’s as heartbreaking as it is mouthwateringly hot, and Derek has to focus hard to tuck himself away and zip up his jeans.

He stares over at Stiles, at the rucked-up shirt and the glistening stain on his skin. Derek’s come is drying in the trail of dark, sparse hair beneath Stiles’s bellybutton. He feels lightheaded.

There’s a t-shirt on the floor. Derek picks it up and wipes his hand clean with it, then carefully sets it down again in the same place.

He has to get out of here before he’s driven to any more stupid decisions.

***

Derek is very good at pretending nothing is wrong. He’s very good at denial, and he’s very good at ignoring the things he doesn’t want to discuss or deal with. He glares at Stiles when Stiles makes a snide comment, and he expresses his frustration violently when Stiles balks at the simple tasks he’s been given.

The handful of Stiles’s shirt that’s caught in Derek’s fist is red and blue, like—Derek’s gaze drops automatically, seeking out the stain where he wiped his hand clean last night.

Stiles’s heart pounds, deafeningly loud. Derek forces himself to look back up at Stiles’s face.

There’s no fear in his expression, not that there ever is anymore. Stiles isn’t scared of him and hasn’t been for months. Usually it’s frustration, annoyance, defiance he sees there, but today Stiles’s eyes are searching his, intensely focused. There’s a tenseness around his mouth; his face is drawn tight. Calculating.

He smells like books and sweat. He smells like Derek.

Derek lets him go abruptly and retreats several steps and it’s weird, but Stiles rolls his eyes like usual, like nothing is wrong. Like he doesn’t _know_.

He makes a show of tugging his shirt back into place, haughty and smug like he’s won the argument, but his thumb lingers at his side, down near the hem, and Derek sees it, the stain. Stiles watches him look. _Calculating_.

He stares at Derek for a long, tense moment and then huffs and shakes his head, mumbling, “Friggin’ werewolves,” under his breath.

The meeting breaks up a few minutes later and Stiles slings his backpack over one shoulder. “I still have a history paper to finish,” he says, “but I’m almost done, so I can start tonight. We can have a research session at my place. I’ll leave my window open.”

“Don’t,” Derek says, and the word feels wrenched from him, thick and painful in his throat.

Stiles’s lips curl in a smirk that looks more like a snarl. “Chill out. I know how to protect myself from unwanted visitors.”

There’s nothing Derek can say that won’t betray how he _knows_ that’s not true. He clenches his teeth and glowers at Stiles, who stares back at him with his eyes narrowed. Knowing, baiting. Calculating. He’s put all the pieces together and he’s let none of his feelings show, and Derek feels decidedly off-balance. At once guilty and thrilled, sick and proud in equal measure.

“I’ll come over after dinner,” Scott is saying as he gathers his own backpack and books. “But Derek’s right, you shouldn’t leave your window open. I’ll just come through the door, dude.”

Stiles shrugs his shoulders, grinning like life’s a joke. It’s a mask, one he wears often, to make people think he’s cocky and reckless and not the smartest person in the room. “Where’s the fun in that?”

***

Derek waits with his back against a tree, staring at the light in Stiles’s open window and listening to his and Scott’s muffled voices as they discuss their current theories. He waits until Scott gets a phone call from his mother, waits until Scott makes his excuses and says goodnight. He waits until he sees Scott leave on his bike, racing down the street into the darkness.

Then there’s silence and Derek knows Stiles is waiting. He doesn’t make Stiles wait long.

Sure enough, Stiles is sitting on his bed with his elbows resting on his knees, not doing anything. Just waiting. Because he knew Derek would show up, and he knew it would be mere moments after Scott disappeared.

Derek stands just inside the window, very still and careful, with his chin lowered. It’s his turn to wait.

“I smell like you,” Stiles says quietly, breaking the silence when it gets too thick with tension.

It’s on the tip of Derek’s tongue to ask why Stiles knows what Derek smells like, but he remains quiet.

“I have before, but last night—this morning…”

An apology bubbles in Derek’s throat. He doesn’t let it out. They both know he’s guilty but maybe Stiles won’t press. Maybe he won’t say the words.

“Look at me,” Stiles snaps. “Or can I assume you looked your fill last night?”

There’s a flash of righteous anger in his tone and Derek’s gaze snaps up, ready to face the consequences. The anger is only in his voice, though, not his scent. His scent is frustration and confusion (and Derek) and books and ink.

Stiles stares at him for a long moment. Derek doesn’t deny his accusations, doesn’t say anything at all. There’s no point. He was in the wrong, and he regrets it (but doesn’t), and Stiles knows that already. Derek breathes out slowly and waits.

After a while, the tightness in Stiles’s expression breaks and his brows draw together, his face softens. “Why?” he asks. “What do you want?”

“I…” The words catch in Derek’s throat. He wants so many things. He needs so much more. “I wanted you to smell like me,” he finally says. That’s what it was, really. That’s what it boils down to. He wants to lay his claim, make it obvious to anyone who cares to see it. He needs it to be tangible and real, something that can protect Stiles, something that can scare off a predator. “I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Why?” Stiles asks. His gaze is narrowed again, and Derek can see the gears turning as he draws his conclusions. Calculating, always calculating, considering every angle and making the right deductions. When it becomes clear that Derek isn’t going to answer, Stiles says, “Tell me what you did.”

“Your window was open,” Derek replies. _That’s not an excuse_. “You were asleep.”

“And you came inside.” Stiles huffs out a laugh. “You came on me.”

“I watched you,” Derek says. “I just… I looked.”

“Why?”

“Because—Because I wanted to.”

“Did you touch me?”

If there had been room to retreat, Derek would’ve take a step backward. As it is, he flinches, because he _wanted to_. “No,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Why?” Stiles asks.

“Because… you would’ve woken up.”

Stiles nods. There’s no emotion in his voice, nothing to betray his disgust or disapproval. Another moment passes. “Did you want to?”

Derek closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

“I…”

Then he asks, quietly, “What do you want, Derek?”

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispers. “I won’t—It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”

He wants to leave. He can’t leave. Not until Stiles lets him go.

“Is it something I can give you?” Stiles asks suddenly. Derek opens his eyes again, stares at him. He’s leaning forward and his tone is urgent. “Is it something… Do you need to take it? Is that what it is? Do I need to… Is it the context? Is it… Is it just scent? Is it—What do you _want_?”

“I wanted to claim you,” Derek tells him.

Stiles nods, watching him with open curiosity and no judgement. “Have you done that now?”

Derek inhales deeply and smells Stiles and books and _Derek_. “For now.”

“You’ll want to again,” Stiles says.

Derek breathes again and refuses to confirm what they both know is true. “But I won’t,” he says instead.

“I trust you.”

That shocks Derek into meeting Stiles’s gaze. Stiles blinks a lot, usually, and fidgets even more, but he’s utterly still and serious right now.

“I just want to know why.”

“Because you—Because you’re fragile,” Derek says. “Because you’re a target. Because you’re _human_. Because you’re beautiful. Because I want you. Because I want to protect you. Because I…”

“Okay.”

“I want to smell myself on you. I want everyone to know that you’re mine. I want them scared of me, scared to hurt you, scared to touch you, because you’re mine.” _Mine to hurt, mine to protect_. He catches a subtle movement, sees Stiles pressing his thumb into the bruise on his wrist.

“I don’t understand this,” Stiles whispers. “I don’t understand why. I’m not a target, I’m not… special. I’m not beautiful, I’m not fragile. The only thing I am is human.”

 _Mine_ , Derek screams inside his own head. _My human_.

“I trust you,” Stiles says again. _I’m not scared of you_ , is what he means. Derek closes his eyes again, because Stiles shouldn’t trust him. He should be scared.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again. “It won’t happen again.”

He turns to go, has one hand braced on the window to climb out, when Stiles grabs his arm and yanks him back around.

“I _trust_ you,” he says urgently. “Just tell me what you want and you can have it. You wanna watch me sleep? You wanna come all over me again? You want me to wear your clothes, your scent?” He takes a breath. “You want to bite me?”

They’re both quiet for several seconds as Stiles’s meaning sinks in.

“I want to kiss you,” Derek murmurs with a slight shake of his head. “I want all of that. I want… I just want you. I want too much, and I’m sorry for taking it.”

“I’ll decide what’s too much,” Stiles says. “I’ll decide what you can take.”

“But you _didn’t_.”

“I am now.”

He takes Derek’s face in both of his hands and pulls him in for a fierce, hard kiss. Their noses grind together, their lips press hard against their teeth, and it takes Derek a while to properly angle himself and open his mouth, to meet Stiles’s tongue with his own and gentle him into something less frantic and more pleasurable. He lets Stiles hold him and doesn’t reciprocate beyond kissing back, pliant and yielding to Stiles’s frustration and desperation.

Finally, Stiles pulls back and rests their foreheads together. He’s breathing hard. They both are.

“It’s not too much,” he says. “All those things… You don’t have to take them. I’ll give them to you. I’ll give you anything, Derek. I’ll give you whatever you want. I trust you.” _I love you_ , is what he means.

Derek sighs deeply and lets his hands settle at Stiles’s hips, carefully holding their bodies together. They smell like each other. He nods and dips forward to catch Stiles’s lips in a soft, brief kiss. Then he says the words, because Stiles deserves to hear them.

“I want you, I want everything, because I love you.”

There’s no shock, there’s no relief, there’s hardly any tangible reaction from Stiles beyond his smile. Because he already knows.

 

 _fin_.

**Author's Note:**

> Underage: Stiles is a teenager, still in high school. I'd say about 17 though it's never stated explicitly.
> 
> Non-con/dub-con: Derek sneaks into Stiles's room while he sleeps and jerks off over him without his consent, fully aware that he's doing something bad.
> 
> Unrealistic ending: Stiles finds out after the fact and isn't appropriately angry or violated, and they end up confessing mutual feelings for each other.


End file.
